


Power Couple

by Dribbledscribbles



Category: The Magnus Archives
Genre: F/F, Helen and Annabelle?, I love you both, M/M, but I don't trust you for shit, time for more hastag wishful thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dribbledscribbles/pseuds/Dribbledscribbles
Summary: Fresh out of the Corpse Routes, the happy couple receives another friendly visit.Jon is less than welcoming.
Relationships: Helen Distortion/Annabelle Cane, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 22
Kudos: 142





	Power Couple

Jon was entirely unsurprised when the door turned up after they were out of range of Terminus’ domain. He had actually begun counting steps in his head since they passed the Corpse Routes’ edge. One, two, three, four…

At step one hundred and sixty-eight, he heard the telltale wooden creak. This time from above. 

They looked up to see Helen already opening the door, her legs curled like boneless wires over the frame so that she could untangle herself downwards. She hung like a child on monkey bars. 

“Long time, no See.” She laid a massive hand to her heart. “Not even a hello for me?”

“Oh! Uh, yeah, hi,” Martin offered, politely enough.

“Helen.” Jon could not See the future. But he could still make an educated guess where this visit would go.

Helen rippled her edgeless form in what was supposed to be a shiver. 

“Goodness, icy this time around, the both of you. Martin I can understand, considering the spot you’ve put him in.” Her face melted in facsimile of a sympathetic moue. “I know I’d hardly feel chummy in your shoes.”

“Wh—,” Martin got out before Helen shook her coiling head and clicked a tongue like a corkscrew. A yard-long finger raised as if to shush.

“No need to pretend, dear. Talk travels fast in our circles. And frankly, Jon, I am disappointed. Not only are you shirking the whole Archival Avenger business, but on a target like Terminus’ avatar? On dear, drearily dreamy Oliver Banks?” Her lashes batted into arabesque curls. “The man invited you to slay him outright if you so pleased—but, of course,” her shoulders shrugged into curved points, “you didn’t so please.”

“No. I didn’t.” Jon was counting again. He imagined a clock in his head, no numbers, no minutes, just a pendulum ticking. Tick-tock, tick-tock. “Martin and I have already discussed this, in case you wanted to try for some new material.”

“Oh, you’ve _discussed_ this. Had a real good talk about how you were just too torn on your personal Grim Reaper who pulled a Prince Charming and coaxed you from your eldritch coma with a single visit to bother pulling the trigger?”

“Helen, seriously, I-I may have had,” Martin gestured frustratedly at nothing, “a bad moment, fine, but I know, logically he’s not—not ‘Jon’s’ anything.” He might have gone on gesturing if Jon hadn’t caught the flapping hand in his own. Fingers squeezed against each other. Helen’s whirlpool eyes flashed merrily. 

“Is that a fact? Funny how that works. The Not-Them slew a handful of innocents, including one dear friend of yours. She mouths off about said friend once and zap! Smote into ashes by the Eye in the sky. Meanwhile, Mr. Banks killed off a whole boatload of hapless scientists and _he_ gets a pass.”

“Helen.”

“But then, I suppose it is only fair. Jon’s gotten passes left and right from The End since he first got the Archivist title noose ‘round his neck. Haven’t you, Jon?”

“Helen.”

“Haven’t you? And hardly just from the Eye’s enhancements or the Web’s careful weaving. Certainly not from Jonah’s haphazard chaperoning.”

“Helen.”

“Oh, now you can’t say you haven’t thought about it. Haven’t considered giving it a Knowing backward glance into all those near-death experiences. How many were luck? How many were by design? How many were, say, a certain agent of The End still feeling a little twinge of,” Helen twirled her fluid hands around, two of the fingers turning to a long, twining braid, “… _connection_ to the Archivist he had dreamt of and woken from death’s trance. Do you really think he wasn’t exercising just a smidgen of new power himself? Nudging a few tendrils in the direction of, say, Breekon? Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk? Peter Lukas? Not killing them himself, of course, but winding down their hazardous clocks on someone’s behalf…”

“Helen.”

“And you never failed to give The End a little tease back, eh? Always throwing yourself into danger, over and over, chasing monsters that chased you, putting your martyr neck on the chopping block ad infinitum.”

“Helen.”

“If one didn’t know better,” she cast a pseudo-melancholy glance toward Martin whose mouth had pressed into a hard line, “I’d call it flirting with death—,”

“ _Helen._ ”

“Yes, Jon?”

Jon Looked at her. Delusion incarnate, the Twisting Deceit. Knowing what the Spiral was doing to its victims through the lens of her was nauseating. Knowing the inner coils and jags of the Distortion’s mind was worse. He could pry deeper if he tried. Really Know it all.

But he had already Seen what he needed in her, fluttering behind the taffy-pulled grin and spinning eyes.

Cobwebs. 

Whether it portended what he suspected or not, well. Rubbish as he was with proper ominous banter when not being the Archivist, he was nothing if not an uncanny mimic.

And so, Jon smiled. Grinned until every tooth flashed and his face creaked.

“How long have you been involved with Annabelle Cane?”

Helen’s coils froze mid-curl. Martin whirled his head around to gawk at him.

“What?” fell out of Martin’s mouth like a stone.

“What?” Helen laughed, razor hand to her mouth. “Is this another one of your Web conspiracies, Jon?”

Jon giggled right back, pitch perfect to her.

“No, no, nothing like that! I was just wondering, since we are talking relationship gossip, if you wouldn’t mind spilling how your recent couple’s activity is coming along. Because, see, I just can’t help but notice that you only seem to turn up when I have Martin beside me. For an avatar who loves playing up the cheap, try-hard teenage Too Crazy to Care persona, you seem to know better than to confront me all by my lonesome, when there’s no significant other there to act as your shield. You know, the same man who was too barred off by Lukas to catch on to exactly how much you screwed us over during that fun stint with the Panopticon.

“Because you’re just good old friendly Helen, aren’t you? Helen, who knows exactly what kind of End she’s earned—and is still earning—as your Spiral churns its victims up like insane slurry in a blender!” Jon chuckled again, all Eyes and teeth. “And isn’t it also so funny that, despite all Melanie’s rage and Basira’s suspicions and Daisy’s instincts and my Eyes, not one of us really bothered to look at you funny back in the Archives? Why, it’s almost like something was influencing us! Giving all of us a nice, chummy blind spot in our joint perception. 

“How much _was_ her work, Helen? Did you split it fifty-fifty? I Know that’s how you two are handling Martin.”

Martin’s eyes got very wide while the pupils got very small. He glanced from Jon to Helen and the effect doubled. Helen had twisted herself around like a snake unspooling from a branch, still smiling as she faced Jon. But there were no more smiles in her eyes.

“Jon, I get where you’re going with this. Really, I do. Shoe on the other foot, right? Perhaps I dented a few truths, corkscrewed a few realities, but I never outright lied. That was Michael’s preference, not mine. Frankly, I’m a little stung—,”

“Thought it was called a Spider bite.”

“If all you’re going to do is—,”

“Tell the truth?”

“You are not—,”

“Not what, Helen? Zeroing in on the one good thing left in the Archivist’s life, playing everyone’s bestie on one end while Annabelle lurks at a distance, somehow always ringing Martin up when I’m well out of earshot? You’re right. Surely it’s just a coincidence.”

“You’re seeing red strings where there aren’t, Jon. And who do you think that feeds?”

“In about ten seconds, no one at all. Because, you know what? We _are_ owed another good smiting. More, I’d like to take a page from the Desolation’s playbook. Burn those red strings, the silk, the Spiraling door. All of it.”

Martin’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline, his gaze now ping-ponging between Archivist and Distortion. 

“Jon..?”

Helen, for her part, had gone starch-stiff in her coils. 

“Well. If I’d known you’d be in this sort of mood, I would’ve—,”

“Picked a different topic to play back-biting fair-weather friend with? Something _not_ focused on jabbing needles into our various insecurities, stirring the pot to prep the stage for Annabelle’s next chat? In fairness, I might have let it go if it was just another round of telling me how much I don’t deserve the man I love, or how I should get down to business and go on an avatar killing spree. But,” Jon tittered as Distortedly as could be managed, his breath sucked in over his teeth, “I very much draw the line at implying I would look at _anyone_ other than Martin, you contemptible, traitorous, two-faced, parasitical, gaslighting piece of shit helix.”

Martin’s mouth fell open. 

Helen’s ground shut. Even the standby grin had curdled to something cold and crumpled. Her fingers were drumming knives.

“Well. Tell us how you _really_ feel, Jon.”

“If you come within an acre of us again, I won’t have to. The Eye will be happy to Show you. And, if Annabelle Cane tries to contact Martin, or me, or any combination thereof again, I will make sure I drive every second of every torture your Spiral is currently twisting through your victims straight down your throat. For starters.” Jon batted his lashes at her. “Do pass that on to her, won’t you, friend?”

“I’m telling you, I am not with Annabelle—,”

“Or we can skip it all and jump straight to the smiting.”

“J—,”

“ _They’ll see what the Watcher does to you from the furthest end of the Vast, Distortion._ ”

The door was gone almost before it slammed shut. What may have been minutes or hours passed. Martin, for once, went just as long without blinking as Jon.

“Um. Jon?”

“Yes, Martin?”

“What the hell.”

“What the hell, what?”

“I mean—I—was what you said true? About them—are the Spiral and the Web really working together?” 

“I don’t know about the Fears themselves, but Helen and Annabelle are definitely together.”

“What? Like, like scheming together or together like us?”

Jon Looked into it and Knew what he’d suspected.

“Yes.”

Martin finally blinked.

“Oh. …And they were working on,” the words stopped up a moment, restarted, “o-on me?”

“Their appearances have been too complementary to be doing anything else. Helen shows up, needles me, and goads you. Annabelle rings you up only when I’m not around to potentially Know anything useful while she’s on the line, laying the same kind of tripwires I got wrapped in pre-Change.”

“That…” Martin’s brow furrowed. “That makes a bad amount of sense.”

“How do you mean?”

“There’s, um. Other stuff Annabelle brought up in that last call that I—I didn’t want to tell you, before. Looking back, I think she had an idea of my feelings concerning Oliver Banks and…” Martin ground his free hand against his eyes, now tomato red with what was either embarrassment or frustration. “God, damn it.”

“What are you talking about? What did she say?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me exactly what it was that Helen did to make you that pissed off before things went to hell in the Archives. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you snap like that at, hell, anyone. Not-Sasha got your whole grim-dark Archivist speech and Elias got a few glares, but _that_ was something else. If she really was—is—bad enough to warrant that kind of telling-off, I’d also like to know why you’ve let her, you know—,”

“Play friend and ally?”

“Yeah.”

“You said it yourself. ‘Who else is there?’”

“Apparently not a good enough reason to keep her around. You clearly weren’t ever happy with her being in our space. Were you humoring me or—oh.” Martin looked at Jon who looked hot-faced at his boots. “Oh, no. You were, weren’t you? You were really going to just let her hang around indefinitely because of me?”

“I mean, y-you two got on well, so I figured—,”

“You were going to go on biting your tongue forever.”

“…Maybe.”

“Until now.”

“Until now.” Jon looked harder at his boots and dug one heel into the earth. “It’s one thing to have you be a little jealous—,”

“ _A little?_ ” The question was almost a snort. Jon’s lips twitched up a fraction at the sound.

“—it’s another for the Distortion to try and actively poke holes in our relationship.”

“Ha. Yeah. Definitely a team-up with Annabelle, then. Helen hits you, she hits me.”

“Okay, seriously, what did she say to you?”

“Tell me about Helen first.”

Jon told him. Martin exploded. Jon asked about Annabelle. Martin told him. Jon exploded back. Together, they made mutual plans for vengeance to do with flat irons and pesticide. At some point, the talk turned a corner and Jon inquired as to what lovey-dovey antics Martin thought could possibly have gone on between himself and Oliver while he was in an actual coma.

“I don’t know,” Martin huffed, face steaming, “romantic avatar stuff.”

“Ooh, Mr. Banks,” Jon cooed in his worst soap opera falsetto, all eyelashes and swoons, “talk posthumous to me.” 

Martin tried and failed to smother a laugh. In retaliation he swooned back, using his own worst Lothario tone and a truly atrocious saunter.

“Hello, Jon, I’m here to handsomely and mysteriously rescue you from your magical coma, while being handsome and mysterious.” He took both of Jon’s hands in his and attempted to pose his face in a magazine cover pout. “You’re so welcome.” They both cracked at that, laughing until they couldn’t breathe. 

Far away, in a place of silk and silence, Annabelle Cane rolled all eight of her eyes as her tiny agents watched from their hiding places.

“Isn’t that so cute.” She sighed and frowned over a number of fraying strands in her Design. Her spinneret fingers plucked them away while going to work on damage control threads. “Also, very much not in the itinerary.”

Helen crossed and re-crossed her arms into knots. She leaned against her doorframe as the door itself rested heavily on the Web. One sharp finger twanged precariously against the nearest strand, twirling it like yarn.

“You were the one who suggested going the unfaithful route, as I recall. I just wanted to stick to the revenge killing, but nooo…”

“Probability was in our favor. But even a 99% chance of success leaves a gap for the unexpected. A gap which I assumed you could fill should the need arise.”

“Oh,” Helen sing-songed, twining deformed hearts in the silk, “don’t I always?”

“You don’t get to flirt, Distortion. Not right now.”

“Yes, ma’am, Miss Muffet. Shall I let myself out, then? Let you vent to your assorted puppets?”

“While you get to go off and pretend there isn’t a massive amount of ground to recover? No.”

“If you think I’m about to dangle myself in front of Jon and his doting Eye again—,”

“No, not in front of him. Martin. If the phone calls aren’t an option anymore, we’re going to have to alter our tactics with him. Cut straight to plan B: ambush and hostage. He’s still going to be taking his convenient strolls away from Jon while he gives his statements. Those threads are still intact. You just need to move quick with your door.”

“I can’t—,”

“Push him inside, yes, I know. But something else can. Another avatar, perhaps. Or a little surprise from one of my own; just enough to shock him backward, trip him over the threshold, and voila. Keep him in your corridors, and Jon can’t make a move on you or storm your proverbial castle; not without risking him. Failing that, you could always dump him in here. I’ve got a nice silk sleeping bag all ready for him. Either way, we—,”

A phone rang. 

Helen stared at Annabelle who stared at the phone. It was a clunky thing, made just after the concept of voicemail became a reality.

“I thought you said your phone number didn’t exist.”

“It doesn’t.”

The phone continued to ring.

“It’s your home. I wouldn’t feel right answering it.”

“Of course not.”

Ring, ring, ring.

Annabelle ordered a puppet, a young man with cobwebs in his hollowed eye sockets, to lift the receiver and put it to his ear. His head nodded without the silken strings’ help. 

“He wants to be put on speaker,” the young man said, spiders spilling over his lips.

“Don’t—,”

The young man’s mouth snapped wide open and stayed that way. A voice that wasn’t his fell out.

“Hello, ladies,” said Oliver Banks. “Sorry to interrupt you like this, but I felt it was a matter of professional courtesy. I couldn’t help but notice that your corpse routes have suddenly gotten much thicker and much shorter on my side of things. They were thinner than dental floss and stretched out for leagues just a little while ago. But now? Well. Whatever it is you’re planning—something to do with Jon and his boyfriend, I’m assuming? Some advice:

“Don’t try it. Your End is getting earlier and messier the longer I look at it. The Not-Them’s didn’t look half as unpleasant as these.

“Just thought you should know. Oh, and Annabelle? Sorry about the property damage.”

With that, Oliver Banks’ voice was gone. The eyeless young man and all the spiders that had been born from his throat were gone too; his cadaver hung pointless and cold in the silk. 

“…So, I’m assuming there’s a redesign in order?”

Annabelle looked at her with eight eyes of burning coal. Helen hastily stuffed the corpse through her door and retreated down her hall.

“I’ll just go ahead and dump the trash, then.”

The door shut a moment before Annabelle had another puppet smash Oliver Banks’ phone to plastic shrapnel with their own skull. It almost made her feel better about ripping down a whole wall’s worth of Webbing and starting again from scratch.

And on a hill, under the Eye’s ceaseless Watch, a couple walked and talked and laughed.


End file.
